Close Your Eyes, Sammy
by Alexander peachtree
Summary: An alteration of the outcome in season one's 'Devils Trap'  Azazel likes wearing Johns body, it makes what he can do to the Winchesters much, much more sickening. *Slash, Non-con, torture, and I suppose Wincest* Chapter 2 gets graphic, coming real soon.
1. Dad

"_I could have killed you a hundred times today, but this..."_

Azazel exhaled breathe deeply from John's lungs, enjoying the sensation. There was something sickly satisfying about John's frame that Azazel liked. It was muscular, felt powerful for a human body, built over a long, hard life and tempered by mortal aging. This and he had to admit John was a fine looking fella; something that both his boys had inherited. He steered his new host towards the window, standing just aside of Dean who was twitching with tension. He liked that.

"...This is worth the wait."

Dean refrained from commenting, the indignation of that information was bad enough without adding to it himself, breaking with the anger and mouthing off to this son of a bitch. The ache in his muscles from straining against the force that was holding him in place was near agony, and it was starting to show in his face. Azazel turned to look at him, admire the pain in the elder sons expression, the almost child-like hunger to inflict damage, but also the desperation. Because despite the want to kill him, he knew whose body he was wearing, and he doubted either was willing to murder their father for the sake of revenge. For that fact, he desired to push it, to make Dean frantic with rage.

"Yer dad, he's in here with me. Trapped inside his own meat suit. He says 'hi', by the way..."

Dean couldn't mask his concern, it crept across his brow and made his jaw tense more than anger ever could. He wanted to lash out, rip that piss-eyed fucker out of john and send him packing for the demon-after life. A shiver of pleasure ran down Azazel borrowed spine, human bodily chemicals were always so enjoyable: Adrenaline, especially, but there were others also.

"...He's gonna tear you apart. He's gonna taste the iron in your blood!"

Dean muttered a low 'let him go' through gritted teeth, his hatred brewing in the pit of his stomach. The words made him feel sick, not because of the threat of harm, but because Azazel would no doubt let John live with the images, the scarring of what HIS hands had done to his own sons. John would be the one to wash the blood off his hands, not Azazel. Their blood: His boys blood. Maybe even have to bury his children, too.

Dean swallowed the lump in his throat as his words drew a weak chuckle past his father's lips. His green eyes did not leave the yellow ones on his father, did not give this prick the satisfaction of thinking his words were having any other effect except angering him further. As John's body turned and drew a little closer, Dean felt himself push against the wooden boards of the wall a little harder, felt himself straighten his spine and hold his chin a little higher as Azazel drew up in front of him. Defiance, strength, because he was the eldest son and god damn it he would not, for a second, allow the name Winchester to be associated with cowardice. He starred him in the eye, ready and braced for the first hit, for whatever this bitch could throw at him. For a second, his eyes glanced to the colt that had been placed down not a moment previous, a longing in his gaze before it flicked back to his immediate problem, which was still just standing in front of him and starring.

Sam watched with much less self control as his older brother, his breathing heavy, erratic, betraying his uncontrollable and seemingly unlimited amount of hatred towards the thing driving their dad. His bruised face was scrunched up into an expression that said were he unbound for just a second, he might not hesitate to pull the trigger. He wanted to swear, to threaten that if he even touched Dean - but he knew how that would go. Dean would tell him to shut the hell up, and it would further amuse the hell-bitch. It would get him nowhere, and if by fluke Azazel decided he'd oblige him, he doubted he'd even be able to muster the sense of direction to accurately lunge for the colt. The blows to the face he'd taken and the subsequent bruising affected his awareness greatly. He could hardly concentrate.

"Why is it I always hear that line from you people?"

Azazel asked calmly, smirking painfully slowly before turning from Dean, wandering closer to Sam, almost inspecting him like a judging at a dog show.

"_Let him go. _Surely you boys have figured it doesn't go down that way by now, what do you expect, exactly; for me to throw my hands up – well, your fathers hands - and oblige?"

Another amused chuckle as he studied the younger brother. Taller, though, he noticed; a little bigger, generally. He imagined it might be quite a thrill to drive him, like a bigger and younger version of John, with more responsive chemicals. Sam didn't look at him, instead he tilted his head up and starred at the ceiling, tried to convince himself he wasn't being looked at. The way Azazel was studying him made him feel naked, and the fact those eyes were his father's (if not his father's colour) made him feel relatively sick. Azazel liked how temperamental Sam was, because it conflicted nicely with Deans 'Solid as a rock' self control and stubborn front. Sam was a lot easier to break, easier to antagonise, which made him fun, but not half as satisfying in the end. He was a 'quick fix' perhaps. Dean was the prize, something worth aiming for. Sam was like shooting at ducks – amusing, and ultimately still a kill, but dean was a fucking cougar – harder to track, harder to hunt, but jizz-in-your-pants satisfying when you got him. He noticed neither of the boys answered him. How Rude.

"No, really boys, what is it you're expecting?"

"Can we just get this over with 'cos I'm getting real tired of the monologue-ing?"

Dean interjected, rolling his head back against the wall, mocking boredom. In actual fact he **did **hate the monologues. The self-important rants you think is a media invention to make the climax of a villains downfall that little bit longer and more engaging but by-fuck did Dean wish that was true. No, they did like to talk. And No, they never learnt. Azazel turned back to Dean, seeing his words more of a challenge than an insult, the fire in dean was something he'd enjoy squeezing out of him. Now he'd gotten to the 'bored now' stage with Dean, it would make what he planned to do with him just that much more horrifying for the three involved. He had to stop himself laughing at Dean's request as an informed john screamed in his head at his sons stupidity. Strolling back, in no rush to get into it, he had all the time in the world with these two. No one to burst in and rescue the: no one who could manage it anyway. Smiling he stopped before him and took a moment to admire him, admire the resistance and the strength. Admire it because it wouldn't be there when he was done.

"Okay, Dean..." He began, his voice slow and deep as his eyes dropped from Deans to Dean's lips, and he moistened his own, stepping just a little bit closer and leant into him slightly and tilted his head, smiling a little. "...As you wish."


	2. Nailed

Dean's head hit the wall hard, causing an ache but it was an ache he preferred to what Azazel was doing. An overwhelming need to vomit washed over him like a wave of ice water as he watched Azazel lean into him, watched him lick his lips and cringed to such gestures. It made his skin crawl and the pit of his stomach churn like rancid butter. His lip curled up a little, disgust on his face to the sort of eyes Azazel was making at him in his father's body. It was almost more than the demon could take: the pleasure in how it was making Dean squirm was almost torturous. He let his eyes drop, running his gaze down Dean's face with a sensual intake of breathe. Dean was a stunning example of Humanity: Strong jawed, fine featured. His lightly tanned skin currently adorned with cold sweat and the dirt from the struggle. Every inch of him was muscle, a defined and well crafted body. Azazel was almost sorry that it wasn't Dean he was steering, but that wouldn't much fit into his plans for tonight. Couldn't break Dean by driving him, for Dean was a martyr and would no doubt prefer being possessed to watching his family in the same position.

No, what he was going to do would be so much more damaging.

Sam was now growling from his perch on the other wall, watching Azazel torment his brother with suggestion. It made him feel equally sick. His breathing was still heavy and laboured as he pitted his muscle against the demon hold on him, without any affect at all. Soft grunts and groans from him spoke of his struggling, his anger, and how much Sam clearly wanted to rip him away from Dean. Sam was a fighter that was for sure, no diplomacy in this man, just war. Dean clenched his jaw, his expression remaining disgusted but turning a little harder as he starred Azazel right in his butter-yellow eyes and growled sternly.

"Do it already."

Dean wouldn't give him the pleasure of making him nervous, making him turn his head. He sure as hell wasn't going to beg him to stop, wasn't going to whimper and bleat like a goat on the slaughter table. Fuck that. If Az' was going to play these twisted games, Dean would let him. And endure. Because that was how Winchesters did things: they endured, and they remained solid. Azazel grinned nastily and quickly, before he obeyed. He pressed John's lips firmly against Dean's, raising his hand to Dean's cheek as he guided Johns body against him, engaging Dean in more than a simple kiss. Pressing the manly frame he currently had hold of against the younger Winchester, he couldn't help but half smirk through the kiss, allowing a faint moan occasionally so no matter how hard Dean clamped his eyes shut he could still hear his father's voice as it vibrated up through his mouth. Dean's face scrunched up, his expression repulsed and his eyes shut hard but he didn't falter. He reminded himself this was not his father, but even that thought brought him little comfort. He was still lip-locked with a demon, a MALE demon. Johns stubble was painful against his chin, like sand paper, and left rough red scratches. None the less, Azazel was not breaking him, Dean even found it in himself to kiss back a little although it made his expression worsen to do it and near made himself gag. Deans own personal 'Fuck you'.

Azazel drew back slowly, having expected much more of a struggle from Dean. He'd been surprised at Dean's endurance of it, surprised he hadn't buckled and pulled away. He was harder to break than he had anticipated. The somewhat disappointed demon let his head lull back and starred at Dean, who was now open-eyed and starring straight back defiantly. That defiance was going to get him into more trouble than it was worth. Yellow eyes folded John's arms across his chest, frowning as he pondered the taste of Dean, which had been – wholesome. Sam had gone quiet, and although he hadn't looked, Azazel assumed it was from shock. Producing a smirk across John's face after a few seconds, Azazel raised a brow.

"Enjoy that, Winchester?"

Dean would have shrugged, if he could move at all. Hell, if he could move at all he'd have punched him.

"I've had better."

Another smart arsse comment.

Sam had been starring open mouthed, Shock having chased him to silence and more controlled breathing as he watched his father and his elder brother with a look of sickened horror in his deep green eyes. He was stunned into an almost numb state of mind, his brain still processing what he'd just seen Azazel put Dean through, and how Dean was handling it. If his brain was functioning on any level except sheer flabergaspery, he might have felt impressed by his brother's strength. He'd certainly not have given the same reaction.  
Azazel's soft chuckle was louder this time, the demon mutilating a laugh that was usually hearty and amused into something sinister, with intention. It just didn't sound right on John. Again, Dean reminded himself this was not John, not in the slightest. Stroking the line of Dean's cheek bone with his thumb somewhat affectionately, he took a good look at his face. That pretty face. It wouldn't be so pretty in a moment.

Azazel turned a moment, looking around at the room, noting where things on the walls were: Hooks, nails, old picture rails, chains. Smirking, he turned back to his prize. Reaching up he took hold of Dean's top and ripped it open at the front, all the way down, repeating in other directions until he could pull it off him.

"...I'm sorry to hear that."

He muttered. His hand was on Dean's throat before the Winchester registered it, lifting him off the wall and marching him across the room, to where old picture hanging nails still protruded from the walls. Holding him up, he pushed Dean's back up against the wall, slowly forcing the blunt ends of the nails to break the flesh on his back and push into the muscle. This drew a very satisfying couple of winces from him as Azazel eased the Cm long blunt spikes into him. Blood trickled down his back from the two puncture wounds. Dean clenched his jaw as hard as he could to stop winces becoming screams, concentrating on keeping his whimpers to a minimal. Azazel held him there for a few seconds, before starting to lower him, the nails dragging up his back, tearing his flesh open and causing blood to pour down instead of trickle. This made Dean scream. He could feel his back tearing open like a Christmas present. In the dim light Azazel's eyes flashed with enjoyment. The smell of blood, and the sound of that scream did more for him than was considered healthy.

The scream tore Sam back to reality, and he started to growl and shout, swear even as he watched the blood flow freely from the large deep gashes on his brothers back. Azazel turned his head to look at Sam, grinning like a maniac as he lifted Dean off the nails, throwing him to the floor before Sam.

Dean could barely keep himself up on all fours. His now exposed back told Sam all he needed to know as to why. Deep claret rips in his skin about 9 inches long were still oozing vast amounts of blood that was running down either side of Deans flanks now, having already left a waterfall trail down towards his belt line. Strips of torn muscle were exposed; no doubt meaning Dean would have trouble standing even if he could. He was shuddering on the floor, trying to control the pain and the accompanying sickness that came with it, trying to fight off on-coming shock. He could smell the blood in the air, thicker than damp smell the room already had.

Azazel sauntered up behind Dean, looking straight at Sam now as he stopped and plunged his hands into his pockets.

"Wanna help? Hm? Well, I tell ya what..."

He pulled one hand free from his pocket and gestured to the cult still lying on the table to the side of Sam.

"...You can help any time you want. All you need to do is pick up that Cult, and shoot."

Mocking Sam, knowing he wasn't strong enough yet. He couldn't pull himself out of the demon hold, and even if he could, he wouldn't shoot dear old dad. Looking down to the mess on the floor before him, he sighed dramatically.

"Looks like Sam isn't playing today, Skippy. Just you and me."

He brought his foot down hard on Dean's back, pushing him to lay flat on the floor. Dust and dirt from the bottom of his shoe mingled into the wounds, making them still more painful and drawing more winces, this time accompanied by a mumbled 'ima-kill-you-you-sonova-bitch'. Leaning down as he lifted his foot off him, keeping him down with demon hold, he eased Dean's blue jeans down to his knees, getting a mumble from a worried but agonised Dean. Sam watched with increased horror as Azazel made easy enough work of Johns Belt, and unzipped his flies.

"What are you doing?"

Sam's voice betrayed his disbelief, his disgust, his horror as he watched. It was all he could do. Azazel eased John's jeans down a little until they hung low enough on his hips for the open flies alone to be enough exposure.

"No...No no..."

Sam muttered, with increased volume as he became to realize what Azazel was going to do. Azazel simply lifted his head, pointed at the Colt a second time, and smiled.

"You know what to do..."

He then dampened his fingers in the blood on Dean's back, drawing painful twitches from the oblivious Winchester whose head was swimming with the pain and the blood loss. He wasn't so numb though that he didn't feel it as Azazel's blooded fingers brushed over him in a most unwelcome spot. His body went into spasm in panic, but was unable to move. The demon then went about coating John's member in the same fluid, which he was thankful to have control of. Were he not steering all parts he doubted this would even be possible. Ignoring further shouts from Sam, Azazel leant down over Dean, smirking, whispering to him.

_"I ought to do you dry, be thankful I'm a charitable sort o'chap..."_


	3. Dean

Dean didn't look up at Sam. How could he? Despite the obvious fact that Dean was the one who was going to have to go through with this, he worried a lot more for Sam who would have to stand by and watch, and be able to do nothing about it. He wondered for a second which position was worst. He concluded quickly that he would rather endure than witness the same thing happen to his little brother. This was why he did not kick up too much of a fight. The pain in his back made his vision blurry, his shoulders barely supporting his weight to push himself onto his hand and knees. He didn't know which made him more likely to vomit though; the pain and the shock, or the words being forced past his father's lips. Dean forced all the thoughts from his mind, tried to make himself numb. _This was not his father. _

Sam almost failed to contain the sickness. Bile forced its way up his throat making the Winchester swallow hard to stop himself from vomiting, leaving a searing, burning pain. His fear picked up, kicking his anger in the groin and making him shut up as all he could do is watch as his father prepared to brutally rape his brother. No..._This was not his father. _

Green eyes flickered between the scene, and the Colt. Never had Sam wanted anything more right that second; that fucking, taunting gun just sitting there out of his reach. He tried to will it to come to him, attempting a Luke-Skywalker on it, but alas the Colt didn't budge, didn't even twitch. Azazel smirked as he buried one of John's hands in Dean's fine, brown hair and gripped hard, pulling Deans head up, making him face Sam as he knelt behind him. The grin across John's face widened a little more, the blood pumping around his body that much harder as he heard Dean's weakening whimpers.

"Well, Sammy?"

Azazel rose an eyebrow over his lemon-coloured eyes, tilting is head slightly as his placed his other hand on Dean's hip, making the young man flinch. He smirked a little, taunting Sam with a prospect he knew wouldn't happen. Sam looked onwards, frowning, almost whimpering himself in want to help his brother. Azazel was fucking with him. He knew Sam couldn't lift that sodding Colt.

"...P-Please..."

Sam couldn't manage anything else. He'd hoped to maintain a more savage, confident voice, but what he delivered was nothing less than a pitiful plea. A beg; a whine even. His breathing was more laboured than it had been when he'd been displaying aggression, which came much more easily to Sam than fear did. Azazel tutted, shaking his head before looking down to the Winchester he had on the floor. Dean fluttered open Jade eyes, looking up to Sam. His lower lip still blood covered as it trembled as he focused on Sam's face, silence falling between them all for a moment before Dean spoke.

"_Close your eyes, Sammy."_

Dean didn't want Sam seeing this, didn't want anyone seeing this. He didn't want it to be witnessed, because he could deal with it himself, when it was between him and this fucker, but he couldn't if Sam was were directly involved. He couldn't stand to look at Sammy in the eyes again if he knew Sam had seen this. Sam closed his eyes on his request, and held them closed tightly as he heard the strangled cry of pain from Dean that told him Azazel had 'broken' him. His body shook and he felt sick as – although he couldn't see it – he could hear the act going on mere meters in front of him. He could hear the sobs and whimpers from his pained brother, and the moans and occasional comment from the demon in their fathers body.

Azazel went to town on Dean, Thrusting with all the effort he could muster from John's body. He kept his hand in Dean's hair, pulling it back, using it as leverage to violate him that little bit harder, and deeper. His other hand smoothed over Dean's body, feeling the tension, the pain, the shaking, and enjoying it. He leant over him a little, dipping his fingers into the bloody wounds on Dean's back, poking around and drawing much louder screams from him. The feeling of wet, slick, broken muscle and tendons caressed his fingers as he played with them like strands of wool, wriggling his fingers in the injuries and occasionally raising his fingers to lips and tasting the blood on them. This was even more pleasurable than he'd anticipated. Dean was so – accommodating. As some might say he 'fitted like a glove'.

Dean's world went in and out of focus. Blood loss and pain were beginning to get a real grasp on him now and he thanked god for the benefits that came with that: less feeling, less care. The sickness stage had passed and now all he felt was the overwhelming sensation that he was going to pass out, and hopefully die. He was mostly being kept up now by Azazel's grip in his hair, his eyes barely open anymore and his whimpers reduced in volume.

John screamed, watching through his own eyes without a single ounce of control over his body. He could hear Azazel's laughter in his head, but it no longer sparked anger. John felt nothing except the consuming guilt and manic worry for his Eldest's well-being. He didn't know how he was ever going to look at Dean again, or if he'd ever be able to hold him, give him hugs like they used too. He felt sick to think that Dean might flinch every time John entered a room, might stutter when or IF he talked to him. All this passed his mind, but if it were the case, he couldn't blame him.

It was over in minutes, and the only one who noticed how short it had been was Azazel. To the others it had been a fucking decade. The demon's over exaggerated cry of pleasure told everyone, even the half conscious Dean, that it was done. Finished. Azazel let go of Dean's hair and watched him fall face first into the dusty floor, smirking as he took a moment to study the mess he'd made of him. Now he'd seriously need a doctor, and how pleasant that would be for Sam and John to try to explain. 

Sam finally opened his eyes, having been weeping like the 'bitch' Dean often called him. His chest rose and fell with tears he couldn't stop running down his face. It only worsted when he saw the state Dean was in. Azazel raised his eyes to Sam, and smirked.

"I'll leave you boys to clean up, shall I?"

With that, John's body arched, facing skyward as the demon smoke roared from his mouth, vanishing off through the cracks in the walls. Azazel had done more than enough damage to all of them, and there was no point in killing them before they had time to really appreciate the mess he'd made of Dean. John's eyes faded back to his natural brown as his consciousness was given back the control of his body. He blinked a second as he picked the reigns back up, and looked down to his son. His sobs were instant...He fell backwards away from Dean, starring in shock.

Sam plucked himself from the wall as soon as he was free and bolted to Dean, skidding to his knees and picking him up, half-slapping his face repeatedly, trying to keep Dean conscious and focused on something. If he let Dean pass out there were great chances he wouldn't wake back up.

"Come on Dean...DEAN! You have to stay awake, stay with me, Dean!"

Dean lulled in Sam's arms, barely awake and certainly not strong enough to stand on his own feet. Sam glanced to their father, aware it must be horrifying for him but if Dean was going to survive he needed John up and moving.

"Get the car running. Move It!"

Sam picked his brother up, grabbing the colt too as John rushed off to start the car up. He pocketed the now useless hand gun and carried Dean out to the car, putting him in the back and sliding into the front seat. They sped down the high way towards the nearest town, the nearest hospital and probably breaking the speed limit...none of them noticed the oncoming truck.


End file.
